


Pyrrhic Victory

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Virgil - The Aeneid
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2003, recipient:oddcellist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Vergil's death, his literary executors discover a few surprises within the narrative of the Aeneid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhic Victory

"I'm dying."

Augustus had heard the same words from the same man ever since they had first known one another, but this time it seemed different. A new timbre had entered the slow, solid voice: a note of certainty. Nevertheless, Augustus fixed a smile to his face and declared, "Nonsense, Publius Vergilius. You cannot die. Not while you have your words to follow you into the netherworld to drag back your shade!"

It was meant as a jest, but it fell flat. Usually people laughed at the emperor's witticisms. Vergil could only cough, turning onto his side to face away from Augustus and choking up a small quantity of blood into the white cloth that he then hid beneath his pillow.

"Your pardon, but I am indeed dying," Vergil repeated, falling back weakly onto the couch. He stared out at the balcony, with its fluttering awning suggesting that a sea-breeze was circulating far from his bed. It was too hot here: a heavy, somnolent heat that reminded him absurdly of sending Aeneas down into the Underworld. He'd written of the descent into cold and loneliness, the way he'd imagined death to be; but now he wondered if death could also be warm, a slow drift into sleep while the mind fevered to waken.

"You cannot die until you finish it," Augustus said.

Vergil blinked sweat from his eyes. Beyond the balcony, Salamis and Aegina were dreaming in the haze of the Saronic Gulf. Islands of greatness, buried by their past. Soon so should he be. Vergil was content with that thought.

"It's finished," he mumbled, exhausted by the conversation and the track of time. His eyes closed; and while he heard Augustus' voice, it was Octavian that he saw. Memory gave him the image of the slender young man he'd first met in Rome over three decades ago: handsome, but with the same fatal charm that his great-uncle possessed, so that he was altogether irresistible. Unlike Caesar, Octavian was serene within his beauty; like Caesar, he courted early disapproval. Vergil could remember sitting behind Octavian and staring fixedly at the dark ash-blond tendrils of hair that spilled down over the nape of his neck and across the back of his tunic. Proper Romans barbered their hair neatly short. Octavian was flirting with impropriety, and this excited Vergil beyond mere lust.

A touch on his arm roused him. Augustus was leaning over him, concern in his eyes. Vergil saw this with pleasure, which faded slightly when the emperor asked: "If you've finished it, where is it? Why did you not show it to me? You know how eager I am to read it."

"Would you thus badger a dying man?"

Augustus watched Vergil curl up into another coughing fit. This time, though, the white kerchief was not applied in time, and blood mixed with sputum stained the cloth through.

"I command you. I am your emperor."

Vergil pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. His throat felt raw, as if he'd shouted himself hoarse. When he could speak, his voice was thin as parchment, crackling slightly: "Once, you were my friend."  
 

* * *

  


The imperial physician came and went, knowing that there was nothing to be done. Equally as sure of finality, Vergil sent word to Tucca and Lucius Varius. They arrived in early evening, smelling the sickly scent of death before they were even over the threshold. Vergil lay against his pillows, his face doughed into feeble, waxen shape. His hands plucked continually at the sheet that covered him, smearing flecks of blood into odd-shaped letters neither Greek nor Latin.

"You must do something for me," he said without preamble. "Promise you will do as I say."

"I promise," Tucca said obediently.

Lucius Varius was more cautious: "Tell me what it is, Publius Vergilius, and then I shall promise."

Vergil's chuckle brought a cough. "You should not be so mistrustful... I want you to burn the _Aeneid_ after I am dead. That is all."

Lucius Varius took a deep breath and nearly gagged on the sweet taste of decay, but he kept his tone neutral as he said, "We have discussed this many times before. You agreed when we left Italy that the work would remain intact."

"I changed my mind."

"What about the emperor?"

Vergil's expression hardened momentarily. "I am the poet. Surely my wishes are greater than those of the patron."

"Surely," echoed Tucca, glancing nervously at Lucius Varius. He remained silent, but his silence was taken for assent. Vergil was pleased, and dismissed them so he could retire early. These days, a sunrise was a splendid sight.

From Megara, Vergil was taken back to Brindisi. He was scarcely conscious for the short voyage, leaving Tucca and Lucius Varius to stand on deck and watch the nor'westerly grabbing at the sail. They were quiet, contemplative; each waiting for the other to begin the conversation they knew they must have. The emperor had visited them both separately to make certain of their loyalties, but while Vergil still lived, they were loath to speak of it.

Three days later, on the eve of Augustus' forty-fifth birthday, Vergil died. Before they wrapped him and buried the corpse outside Naples, Tucca sorted through the leather scroll cases. He separated those of the _Aeneid_ into a pile, and then, cradling them in his arms, he took the manuscripts out into the courtyard where a brazier was alight.

"You can't actually be serious about that," Lucius Varius said softly from the darkness. "You can't burn the _Aeneid_."

"He wanted us to do it."

"Still, we really shouldn't..." Lucius Varius slid past, snatching a scroll at random from the pile, and then he dipped one end towards the brazier.

Tucca watched, biting back a whine of pain and hugging the remaining scrolls even tighter as if to protect them from the sight of the parchment curling black as the flames licked upwards; and then he cried out: "Lucius, you're a poet. You shouldn't be able to do this."

"It's precisely because I'm a poet that I can." Lucius Varius lifted the scroll and tilted it, encouraging the flames to run along the very edge of the manuscript.

Tucca could watch no longer. Dropping the armful of scrolls to the ground, he seized the burning manuscript and flung it against the marble pavement that divided the fish pond from the garden. He danced upon the flames, trying to stamp them out, then plunged the still-burning tip into the water where it hissed in fading anger. When he took the scroll from the pond, Tucca looked in horror at the stripes of ink that blurred the letters, at the gouged-out curves the flames had made, and the fragile, crumbling black that clung to his wet fingers.

Behind him, Lucius Varius sighed infinitesimally. "No more talk of burning it, Plotius. Instead, we do what the emperor wants. We edit it, and then we publish it."

Tucca raised his gaze from the crumpled mess in his hands and looked up at the night sky. "Forgive me, Publius Vergilius," he whispered. "I tried."  
 

* * *

  


Troy was burning. Everywhere was horror, everywhere rage: an army gone mad after ten years of siege now glutted themselves in an orgy of blood and destruction. Death had been a constant throughout the decade, picking his victims one by one, but never before had so many innocents accompanied the glorious warriors down into the Underworld.

Aeneas could hear them, the shades of the dead. They twittered, as confused as the living and still attempting to escape their fate. When they realised that they had no form, no solidity, their fright rose and they cried aloud, the noise like the clattering of the Stymphalian Birds. Aeneas rolled from the sound, his ears ringing; he ran from the sight of Priam choking blood, the ghost wakening from the body and reaching out to him, but there was no escape.

Guilt tripped him, nagged him to seek out his father Anchises and for little Ascanius, but the reality of the battle was too strong. Onwards he went, driven by a madness he did not recognise, and for every sword-thrust or spear-point that was aimed at him, he gave it back twofold. The taste of hatred had grown sour on his tongue, but that night Aeneas found that it could be sweet as well as bitter. The rushing of the fire deafened him to pleas or claims of friendship, and the song of insanity had just begun to burble out of him when he fell, masonry collapsing beneath his feet to throw him into the interior of the palace.

For a moment he thought he was dead. Outside, the battle raged on. The city walls still burned and fiery missiles cut arcs across the night sky; but inside, all was calm. He realised that the illumination within the half-shattered chamber where he lay was not external light, and so he sat up and looked around. A door led into a corridor, and he crawled over towards it and out into the long, narrow expanse of dressed limestone blocks. Aeneas blinked up at the torches in the sconces and wondered why he did not recognise this place. He thought he knew every room and corridor of Troy's citadel, but this held no memories for him.

Slowly, he became aware of a sound close by. A woman's breathing, deep and steady; not hysterical, and yet not resigned to her fate. His curiosity piqued, Aeneas stood and made his way towards the sound. The corridor curved around, opening out into a small chamber with a vaulted roof and with a square hearth set central to the room. The walls of the chamber retained the white of the limestone, but the roof was black and streaked with soot. There was no fire within the hearth: just a heap of ashes, cold and grey.

Sitting upon a chair facing the ashes was Helen the Tyndarid, her hair unbound to her waist and her gown already rent in the signs of mourning. There was no trace of tears upon her cheeks; she did not slump forwards in her grief at losing her lover Paris. She merely sat up straight, waiting.

Aeneas stared at her, conscious of conflicting emotions. Helen's fatal beauty had captured the hearts of many men, but never had he fallen prey to her wiles. He had always been too aware of the danger of falling in love or in lust; too aware of his duty to Troy to condone the elopement and hasty marriage between the Spartan princess and the prince of Ilium. He had never found her showy, extravagant beauty attractive, even though it was said that she was as lovely as his mother Venus.

But seeing her there, a woman stripped of ornament and without artifice, a woman expecting death from both Trojan and Greek alike, Aeneas at last found something to admire in her. Helen was no trinket. Her mind was the equal to her beauty; her resolve as firm as any soldier's. Her composure was, to Aeneas, suddenly the greatest trophy he could hope to take.

Thus decided, he stepped forwards into the chamber and faced the Spartan. Helen looked up, her eyes unreadable in a face carefully passive. "Aeneas, son of Anchises, I can well imagine why you are here," she began, and her voice betrayed her nervousness. For ten years she had driven out all trace of a Laconian accent, but now it returned, stronger than ever, and she sounded like a stranger.

"I doubt you could know for certain," Aeneas responded.

She plucked nervously at the sleeve of her gown, as if she would attempt to cover her head with it in a gesture of modesty, but it would be a false gesture and they both knew it.

"Your mother was the one who ordered me to my fate," she said. "I did not ask to fall in love with two such powerful men."

"If you were so much in love with Menelaus, then you would never have abandoned him and come here to curse us."

Helen smiled. "Menelaus attracted my mind. He was also the greatest king I could have chosen as a husband. Paris... ah, Paris was so beautiful, so tragic - a boy compared to Menelaus, but how could I resist the command of Heaven? I have lived my life backwards, a queen at an early age and a lady of leisure only in later years. I have had fabulous wealth and yet known the cares of poverty. I know too well what it is like to beg for mercy from a foreign power, and when that situation is reversed as it is now, when my own people hunt me down and turn against me, then I know what is to be done."

Aeneas laughed then, a harsh sound. "Do you expect me to feel pity for you, lady, when you have brought ruin to so many households? This city, one of the greatest ever built, tonight lies in collapse. Your name will ever more be associated with your talents as a whore -"

"Talents that you, no doubt, wish to savour," she responded calmly. "Otherwise, you would have killed me as soon as you saw me."

"You have a high opinion of yourself," Aeneas retorted, caught off-guard.

"Your own mother recommended me for the position." Helen folded her hands together and set them in her lap, then raised her chin slightly so that her golden hair glittered in the half-light of the torches. Her gaze was challenging, unmistakable.

Aeneas took a breath. He felt dizzy now that she had revealed herself in her true beauty, but however much he wanted to lie with her and strip away her composure, he was still conscious of the clamouring of duty. With effort, he dragged his sword from its scabbard and held it before him in defence. "I will not fall prey to your charms, lady."

She smiled, confident. "You already have."

He began to advance on her, keeping the hearth between them. He wanted nothing more than to cast aside his weapon and to rush her, to bury himself inside her; but instinct told him also to cut her down and bring an end to this conflict. His indecision was paralysing; her smile too tempting. Goaded, Aeneas swung his sword towards her, across the hearth, and Vesta herself intervened, angry at the sacrilege. Fire erupted from the dead ashes, burning fierce and bright, raging louder than any fire that devoured Troy's walls, and Aeneas was forced back, afraid of the blaze. When it died down once more, Helen was gone.  
 

* * *

  


Lucius Varius allowed the scroll to roll back up on itself. Tucca had set out the original prose compositions of the entire poem so that they could begin the edition. He had almost disappeared into the folds of his cloak as the reading had progressed. The silence afterwards was heavy, the shade of Vergil lingering too closely at their shoulders. Lucius Varius could almost hear the old bastard laughing, chuckle-coughing at their response to his words.

"Fuck," he said aloud, crisply and clearly, and Tucca looked up, startled.

"Lucius?"

"Fuck him." Lucius Varius got up from the chair and, turning, kicked it hard. " _Fuck him!_ Why didn't he tell us what he was planning? I thought he _cared_ about the emperor!"

"He wrote it after Actium," Tucca said, flinching each time Lucius Varius came within range. "You remember the rumours that were put about, surely? That Octavian would force Cleopatra to submit to him publically -"

"Politically, not sexually," Lucius Varius snapped. "Curb your imagination!"

Tucca gleamed at him. "I am not a poet, therefore I do not require an imagination. It is for the likes of you to provide me with images and imagines."

Lucius Varius sat down again, abruptly. "The likes of Publius Vergilius. Not the likes of me. I have some respect for my dignity. And my reputation."

"And your life?"

"That goes without saying." Lucius Varius gnawed on his knuckles, undecided, then he bent forwards and scooped up the parchment. "As his literary executors, I think we should burn this. The emperor has already approved Book Two. It would be unwise to tamper with imperial adjudication."  
 

* * *

  


The selfsame urge that drove Aeneas to seek love in the arms of Phoenician Dido struck again in the kingdom of Evander. For almost as soon as Aeneas had followed the advice of the Tiber and sought the friendship and aid of the Arcadians, he had been greeted by Evander. The king remembered how, in times long past, he had walked amongst the Trojan chieftains and admired them; and none more so than Anchises, whose beauty attracted the goddess Venus herself. Evander told how the Trojan prince had became his friend, and indicated the gifts that Anchises had given him. The golden mantle he still wore wrapped about his aged shoulders was one such gift.

Aeneas regretted that all he had brought to Evander was the horror of war. "You are mistaken," the king had said then. "War brings honour, for it is the will of the gods. The Arcadians came to this place for a purpose, and the prophecies of the nymph Carmentis indicate that, no matter how hard the coming battle, you, Son of the Goddess, will be victorious."

As Aeneas moved to thank the king for his words, he saw instead a young man, keen of eye and with a pleasing, intelligent face. Evander saw the direction of Aeneas' gaze, and called forth the young man, saying, "This is Pallas, my son. He shall fight by your side, as I was ever at the side of your esteemed father. Pallas shall be your guide here, and shall make you welcome."

Pallas stepped forwards, his charm evident to all, and Aeneas was dazzled by him. While the Trojans settled into the walled citadel that Evander had built, the two princes walked at leisure. Pallas showed Aeneas all the sights that his father's city had to offer: the horned river of Tiber, the altar of Saturn, the Carmental Gates; the Capitoline Hill, all shadowy and awe-inspiring; the woods that would later become Romulus' sanctuary. The history flowed from Pallas' tongue, rich and seductive, until Aeneas felt that he had lived all his life in this place of wild beauty.

"There is but one thing more that you must see," Pallas said, leading Aeneas into the dark woods that clustered at the foot of the seven hills. Deeper they went, until even the calling of the birds could scarce be heard; and then at last they came to a damp crag that overhung a cave as black as night.

Aeneas started back, wary of entering the cave; but Pallas lit a torch and held aloft the flame. "Come, see inside," he enticed. "You will see that there is nothing to fear. This cave holds great history - it is the Lupercal, named for Lycaean Pan."

"I sense madness from the cave," Aeneas protested. "Now you tell me that the place is sacred to Pan, I understand why I fear it so. Reason has ever been my guide, and Pan despises all things rational."

Pallas laughed, his eyes flashing with the swing of the torch. "But Reason was born from Chaos; the steps of the great dance were noted down only after the dance was ended. Come into the cave, Aeneas, and you will see there is no terror from history - especially when you can make it yourself."

Aeneas followed the son of Evander inside, at first afraid of the leaping shadows that were flung from the torchlight, and then, as they moved further inside and the air became warmer, he was reminded of the cave outside Carthage. He moved closer to Pallas, their bodies brushing together almost by accident as they continued deeper.

Then at last they stopped before a crude altar made of worked stone, with offerings of clipped branches, wild berries, and the curving stems of bright flowers, so peculiar in their sudden colour and scent in the darkness.

"The shrine of Lycaean Pan," Pallas whispered, kneeling before it and bowing his head.

Aeneas stood behind him, watching as the torch guttered with the downwards movement. Through the wavering light, he saw the form of the god take shape upon the altar: cloven-hooved, goat-legged, with yellow horns curling from his forehead. He did not speak, but instead he held up the syrinx, putting the pipes to his lips and beginning to play a rapid, insistent tune that forced Aeneas' mind away from the cave to see the future.

Inside the music, Aeneas saw Pallas' death. He saw the young Rutulian king Turnus, so darkly handsome and so gifted in war that, for a moment, Aeneas forgot his attraction for Pallas and hungered instead for Turnus. It seemed to him right that two men, equal in looks and skill, should fight over him. The music showed him that both would die: Turnus killing Pallas, and then he himself killing Turnus. What beauty there was in revenge! What pleasure to be had from knowing Pallas while conscious of his end!

Thus ended the song of Pan: and Aeneas, still caught in the whirl of the dance, pulled Pallas to his feet and embraced him. The torch fell to the ground and was extinguished; outside, the dryads and fauns raised a cry; and Pan's maniacal laughter rolled through the groves.  
 

* * *

  


"Well, Plotius - and what do you make of that?" Lucius Varius asked as he flung down the manuscript and then stretched his arms above his head, yawning hugely.

Tucca had forced himself to remain silent throughout the reading, even when he had recognised the caricatures that Vergil was drawing so damningly. Now that Lucius Varius had invited him to speak, however, he found himself doubting what he had heard in the story.

"Aeneas should not have a male lover," he said primly.

Lucius Varius gave him an indulgent smile. "I would rather like to keep the inference in the text, but I agree that such blatancy might be... unpalatable in some circles. Especially these days."

Tucca leaned forwards in his chair and lowered his voice to a whisper, although there was nobody to hear them at that time of night: "I heard that Sextus Pompeius and Marcus Antonious both said that Octavian was rather effeminate as a youth." He sat back, then added, "With all the implications that carries."

Lucius Varius' smile increased into a chuckle. "It was more than implication, surely. Publius Vergilius knew Octavian back then, and... well, is it not obvious how he felt about the emperor?"

"But if he wrote the _Aeneid_ from love, then why is Aeneas so - so..."

"Boring?" Lucius Varius quirked an eyebrow. "Because a man driven solely by duty to his destiny has no heart, whether that destiny be to ensure the future foundation of Rome, or to save the Republic from itself."

Tucca got up from his seat and moved around the study, touching items at random as if to do so would bring back Vergil from the dead so that they could question him on his actions. It brought him no comfort, and so eventually Tucca paused by the small table where a servant had earlier placed a tray of food and drink. He lifted the jug and held it towards Lucius Varius, who nodded in idle response. Tucca poured the wine into two cups, but when he made to add the water, Lucius Varius interrupted, saying:

"I think I want mine unwatered."

"We still have several scrolls to read through," Tucca said, but without reproach.

"Indeed; and if all of them are like these two, then I would prefer to make my decisions while drunk."

Tucca smiled at this, and carried the wine back to the hearth where they sat edged in darkness. They saluted one another over the rims of their cups, then they spilled a little in honour of Vergil. As Tucca sat down again, he asked, "Do you really believe that, what you just said? About a man having no heart if he believes he has a duty to destiny?"

Lucius Varius took a long draught of the wine and closed his eyes in brief ecstasy. "Falernian! Praise the gods, who'd have thought that the old bugger had such a good vintage?"

"I'm serious," Tucca said.

"So am I." Lucius Varius cradled his wine-cup close to his chest. "I certainly think that a man's belief in his destiny can destroy all manner of things. That's probably why I'm not a particularly good poet. No discipline; no drive for perfection, or whatever poets like to call destiny."

"Do you - do you think that Publius Vergilius had a heart?"

Lucius Varius looked at Tucca in surprise. "I thought you knew the answer to that already, Plotius... But yes, I think he had a heart, albeit one much bruised by the faithlessness of the man he loved. Why else do we have this scene, which says so much that it all but reveals the true names of Pallas and Turnus?"

"Titus Livius and Quintus Horatius," Tucca said miserably, knowing that he had correctly identified the historian and Vergil's rival poet, all of them in constant attendance on Augustus and all of them desperate for the bestowal of imperial favour.

"Precisely," Lucius Varius said musingly. "You know, Plotius, I am fast coming to the conclusion that the _Aeneid_ was not written from love at all, but from a much harsher impulse."

Tucca anticipated him. "Jealousy."

"Yes," said Lucius Varius. "Jealousy."  
 

* * *

  


The battle raged thick and fast, like a great river swollen with the winter rains; now a current eddies here, now there, and in the midst of it all, a rock stands firm, gripping the channel of the river. Like this was Aeneas, holding his place in the lines while his gallant Trojans clashed against the Rutulians and their allies. A challenger advanced, swirling out of the mass of arms, and Aeneas was startled by the look of contempt upon the face of the contender. He recognised the old man as Mezentius, a godless Etruscan who paid no heed to the prophecies that ruled the other tribes of Latium.

"This arena is not for you," the old man roared as he advanced, his spear-point levelled to thrust at Aeneas' shield. "Go back - go back to whence you came, and trouble us no more."

The Trojan prince defended himself, sparks flying as the weapons clashed. Mezentius had the advantage of surprise, but Aeneas was young and strong, and so when the two men closed together again, there was less equality in their match.

"It is my destiny to rule this land," Aeneas cried. "The gods themselves have sworn it, and the gods never lie."

Mezentius gave a short bark of laughter. "More fool you, if that is what you believe. I have long ago learned that what the gods do is no concern of mine. What is the point of asking for intercession if their will is so implacable? It changes nothing, and only raises false hopes in the heart of the petitioner. I swore never to have anything to do with the gods - but with man, I am wholly comfortable. I can bring you down, Aeneas of Troy, because I know your heart."

"Your words are an affront to all who worship the deathless ones," Aeneas returned, and so saying, he drove forwards in an attack, hoping to spill impious Etruscan blood as sacrifice to the gods he held so dear. Mezentius staggered, the earth seeming to throw him off-balance, and as he fell, Aeneas stabbed home his sword. It pierced the hide-covered shield and struck Mezentius' chest, ripping through the tunic woven with golden threads. Exultant at the spray of blood, Aeneas swung back his sword to end it.

Then, a young, slight figure intervened, placing himself between the two heroes. Lausus, the son of Mezentius, stood over his fallen sire and held off Aeneas' surging charge.

"Child, begone!" warned Aeneas. "I have no wish to kill you; there is no glory in the death of one so young."

But Lausus did not move. Aeneas repeated his words, this time in a louder voice, but again the youth refused to stand down. A third time did Aeneas warn away the child, and now he was echoed by a dozen Trojan warriors who were witness to this strange, desperate act of courage.

"I will not say it again," Aeneas repeated, "move aside! I do not wish to be responsible for your death!"

On the ground, Mezentius laughed heartily, even though his injuries were such that he almost choked on his own blood. "O Aeneas," he said at last, "the more you try to move my son, the less ground he will give you. With each demand, you raise his status; if you continue in this way, he will be above you and beyond you, and you shall not be able to touch him."

The mocking tone of the Etruscan's words infuriated Aeneas; and so, without thinking of the consequence of his actions, he brought down his sword and cleaved Lausus' head from his body. For a moment he was blinded by the splash of blood that covered his eyes, and when he wiped them clear again it was to see the entire army standing and staring at him, judgement writ across their faces in place of acclamation.  
 

* * *

  


Tucca sat back, almost afraid to meet Lucius Varius' gaze. He could already picture the bemusement and anger on his friend's face. Cautiously, the parchment whispering as he lowered it to his lap, Tucca risked a glance across the study. He was accustomed to see Publius Vergilius sitting behind the desk, a cup of water close beside him and a dozen lamps scattered in a wide half-circle to illuminate his work.

Instead of this familiar sight, he saw the weary form of Lucius Varius, his head resting on his forearms upon the desk. Around him was the drift of papers of the _Aeneid_ , no longer carefully ordered but heavy with deletions and scattered as if a wind had blown emptily through the room. Instead of a cup of water, the jug of Falernian stood by, drained long ago. Only one double lamp shone over the table, its flames guttering low but still with enough light to gleam the red in Lucius Varius' hair.

Tucca watched the slow rise and fall of his breathing for a long moment, then turned his attention back to the manuscript in his hands. They had both been deceived: Vergil had not just used the _Aeneid_ to work out his petty jealousies; he had used it as increasingly blunt criticism of Augustus himself.

It was not so much a labour of love, but one of disappointment. The last chapter Tucca saw as being too clearly a metaphor for the poet and his work. Doubtless Lucius Varius, when he woke, would find some way to write around it. The event was too important to omit from the edition entirely, but it needed to be neutered somehow. He thought it amusing that Vergil had emasculated the emperor so cunningly; truly, there was none swifter to seek redress than a lover scorned.

Tucca got up and made his way across the room, dropping the manuscript onto the desk beside Lucius Varius. Then he pushed open the door of the study and walked along the corridor, out into the atrium to greet the morning sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Expansions and variations of the _Aeneid_ in the story: II.568ff; VIII.98ff; X.790ff. I used the Penguin translation by W. F. Jackson Knight, plus Aelius Donatus' _Life of Vergil_. Plotius Tucca was one of Vergil's named heirs, while Lucius Varius Rufus, himself a poet of no great distinction, was appointed as Vergil's literary executor.


End file.
